Random Photo Gallery

 Hey, check out what the Noisewater family has been up to via series of photographs, like in the old days when you went to somebody's house and they pulled out their damn slide projector. Hey, quick side bar (slide bar?) story - I remember as a kid we traveled to Florida and my dad got in contact with a very eccentric man that he used to work with. We were back at his house and he says, "Hey, you want to see my pictures from India when I went to the Sex Temples of Virupaksha?* No one said "no thanks" in time, so he giddily fired up that slide projector and up on the big screen came a series of shots of ancient sculptures engaging in kinky sex in a variety of positions and groupings. I was like 9-years-old. Learning a lot. Anyway, here are my very G Rated Slides. 

* That may not be the name of the sex temples he visited, but he knew the name of it. I just searched on Google, found a link for 7 Sex Temples in India and picked the funniest name.

** I copy and pasted the name of the temple and it changed the font and it made a weird highlighted thing over this section of the post. I tried fixing it and made it worse. Let's look at some pictures, shall we?

On Saturday morning I took Erik with me for a socially distanced yoga class that a friend teaches by the lake. She hits you with a lot of cardio and strength stuff, so you're really banged up when it's over. Plus it's a chance to sort of connect with people, even if you're not talking with them a whole lot. Erik got bored with the iPad, ran out of snacks, got bored of looking at boats, got bored with the three or for poses he attempted, and then at minute 40 of the 60 minute class I decided that he lasted a lot longer than most 3-year-olds would have given the circumstances, so we hopped back on the bike and headed out. 

For being such a good sport at yoga I rewarded him by finding a park with water sprayers. He's the guy with the mask. I would say about 2 out of 10 people at the park had masks on. Erik is a solid dude. Never complains about wearing it. And I think a lot of parents with more than one kid will tell you that when you give a kid some time with just him and a parent, they are so wonderful to be around. He isn't competing for attention with his brother, his mother, or anybody. We were just hanging, and he was a blast to be with. 

On Sunday we didn't feel like going anywhere, so we locked ourselves and the kids in our crummy little urban front yard area with bubbles, baseballs, a bat, a volleyball, a couple of chairs, and a couple of beers. That's Desmond in the picture. He is coming up on 1-year-old and can pull himself up to stand, as you can see. I thought this picture was funny because he looks like an exhibit at a zoo. The "yard" is mostly weeds and dirt, so he was a mess after crawling around there for the better part of an hour.

Mrs. Noisewater is most certainly the artist of the family, but by god if Erik wanted a rocket ship, I was going to draw him one. Notice the Transformers shirt. The kid knows his 1980's Transformers trivia, and it's damn impressive.

This is the whole Noisewater famn damily in our Chicago Blackhawks outfits ready for the big game. I have been so sports starved with everything cancelled that I am going absolutely batty, yes I chose that word on purpose, over my Hawks. They won the game that night and advanced to the next round, probably directly correlated to Desmond's Patrick Kane jersey with the belly flopping out. 

What's new with you, Seven Readers? Go ahead an answer one, two, or all of these: Ever been to the sex temples? Ever endured someone's vacation videos or slides? Got any sports teams you've been supporting? Got any exercise programs you have been trying to stick to?

During the summers that I don't have to go to work and am working as a full time father, I take one day out of the week to drop Erik Noisewater off at daycare. This particular
Daycare Day I was surprisingly efficient. 

1. I always go to coffee shops because I know for a fact I won't get anything done at home. I'll just end up watching television, napping, burping the worm, and who knows what other useless things I can do to avoid getting shit done. I find it fun to keep trying out new coffee shops, and yesterday's was an awesome Colombian one where you can pour yourself regular or sparkling water out of taps. Now that is cool because to be honest I only typically sip one coffee all day, and that's enough to keep me going. But I probably have around 5 to 6 waters, and sparkling stuff makes me feel like a big timer. So that's one thing I did. Found a dope coffee shop in my new neighborhood.

I always find a couch because I have shit posture. 

2. I turned submitted all my tests and essays for one online class and signed up for a new one. If I can knock down a couple more I can bump my pay grade up a little to help pay for necessities like diapers, mortgages, and craft beers.

3. Got a haircut. Do any of you have that place Sports Clips where it's a sports themed place in which you can watch ESPN, get a hot towel on your face, they massage your back with a vibrator (not that kind), and the ladies all wear referee outfits? It's probably a little sexist, right? I never really gave it much thought, but it's kind of like, "What do men like? Sports. Women in skimpy outfits. Women pampering them. And watching sports while women don't talk." Anyway, I did talk to my stylist, and she was a very nice young lady with an AD/HD 3-year-old. I was able to give her some advice in exchange for her maybe demeaning herself a little, for whatever that is worth.

I think they actually stopped wearing these, so I don't feel AS douchey going now.

4. After the haircut I stopped into my gym that is across the street. Not to work out. It's an off day with my marathon training. I just wanted a peanut butter, banana, and chocolate shake. Some guy named Jay came up when she swiped my gym pass, and I was like, "That's cool. Put that on Jay's account. Fuck him." The gym gal laughed and upgraded me to a large one for the price of a medium. The large one was way too much shake, as wide of a cup as a gallon of milk, but I still finished that bad boy because it tastes like chocolate, bananas, and peanut butter for God's sakes.

5. Then I thought I should get in a hot yoga class to stretch out my legs that are getting destroyed from all the running. I laid my gym mat on the floor, and then when I flapped the towel out to put on top of the mat, something went flying out that had been stuck to the towel. When I looked more closely tot see what it was, it was lacy. What could it be? Oh shit! Panties! I just shot panties across the room in a yoga studio. Everyone in there is going to think I'm some sort of panty-sniffing yoga pervert when in actuality my wife's panties just clung to the towel from the laundry. But who would believe that?

No, I don't wear those pants. Nor the glasses. And no, I can't do that with my legs. 

And they just had to be lacy, right? If they were her workout bloomers they would look like maybe it was a headband or something. Nope. Unmistakeably panties. I swiftly scooped them up and snuck them in my pocket. Honestly, it was hard to get into my zen mode during some of the more challenging stretches because in the back of my mind I was worried about the damn panties slipping out of my pocket and back onto the studio floor.

6. Aside from the panties thing, the yoga was really great. I left feeling very recharged and at one with where I was in that time and place, if that makes any sense. Hard to explain I suppose unless you do some yoga from time-to-time. I only get around to going to a class every so often, but every time I think to myself that I need to make it a weekly event. A lot like blogging, which I'm sure you can understand. Then as I'm walking to my car I see two meter maid guys looking at my license plate and typing in their computer thingies. Shit! I tried to explain that I had no idea it was a metered lot, which was true. They were having none of it. One guy was training the other guy, and he talked to the trainee like I wasn't even there. He wouldn't even look at me.



Every time I have come out to my car and the person was in the midst of writing a ticket, they have let me go. Isn't that kind of an unspoken rule? Like, "Okay, you win this round. But watch your ass!" Nope. This guy was having none of that. Maybe he had to be tough in front of the trainee, or maybe he was just a dick. I was thinking to myself that if I wanted out of this one I would have to grovel and kiss this guy's ass, and I couldn't bring myself to do that. I hated him, so I would rather just pay the fifty bucks. After getting in my car (because I always think of the right move after it's too late) what I thought I could have done was to throw a yoga towel, or a pair of panties, over the license plate and peel out of that bitch. Next time. All the more reason to keep a pair of panties in your pocket. What in the hell am I talking about?

Until next time, Seven Readers. Get shit done today like a daddy on a damn mission. What do you have cracking this weekend? I intend to go to a Cubs game tomorrow night with my season ticket buddies and it will likely be an evening of straight-up drunken, skin-tight* buffoonery. Talk to you again next week, probably a few brain cells lighter, but I'll still try to be funny as best I can.
_______________________________________
*No, that doesn't make any sense. It's a Guided By Voices lyrics. Few of their lyrics make any kind of sense, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

The other day just about the only thing I had to do for the entire day was put a baby crib together. How long could that really take? Well, little did you know I got a C- in Industrial Arts in Junior High, and I suck at this sort of thing. If there is anything that could have been done wrong, I did it wrong. Two different times I figured out way too late that I had put something on backwards and had to take apart just about everything to get it put on right. Believe it or not, I woke up all sore the next day from sitting on the floor in awkward positions screwing screws into stubborn bolts. 

This was my first real dad task, and I'm not going to say it was a complete failure. Sure, there were a lot of bumps in the road and a lot of swearing, but I stuck with it and got it done. I think it was a metaphor for what parenting is going to be like from what I hear from my friends: You have to figure it out as you go, you're going to suck at it at times, but you just stick with it and stay positive. And they'll be lots of extra parts. Okay, that makes no sense. I suck at carpentry and metaphors. 

I ran the Chicago Rock and Roll Half Marathon last weekend. I have figured out that halves are plenty for me. No more full ones because those destroy perfectly good bodies. My good buddy, Night Train, and I run around 10 miles once every weekend, and it's been great for keeping weight off and gives us time to recover. Also, that way you don't get sick of running when it's just once a week. The race went really well for us, and they had live music along the way. They also had rock impersonators, and I tested the Blues Brothers guys and said to them as I ran by "Orange whip . . . Orange whip . . .," I was very pleased and impressed that they both responded with "Three orange whips!" and did the proper hand motion. The Elvis impersonator looked very hot, sweaty, and hungover, so I didn't engage him with any fun pop quizzes. He looked busy concentrating on not throwing up on himself. 

Hot yoga has been a great way for me to recover from running way too far and taking entirely too long to assemble things with seemingly simple instructions. Usually I'm just about the worst yogi (that's what they call yoga participants) in the class, and that's fine. You have to be willing to be the suckiest guy in the room before you can get better at anything. I'll tell you right now that I'm in decent shape but can't touch my toes. Not even close. Slowly I'm getting more flexible, and I always leave feeling refreshed and thinking with a clear head. However, yesterday right when the class ended, some country music kicked in and continued for at least four songs while I was in the locker room. I would prefer they play any innocuous new age wind chime music music that just blends into the background. That's fine and expected. But, I can't relax when I'm listening to a song about some guys drinking a six pack of beer in the back of a pick-up truck. Unless I'm right there in the back of that truck with them. Country makes me angry, and I can't tune that crap out. 

Always good to have a spotter

When I was in high school I left my alarm clock-radio alarm (I'm old) on the other end of the room and had it set on the country station. That way I knew I wouldn't lie in bed and listen to the music because I knew I would have to run across the room to turn it off or slowly lose my mind. So, it's been a long history of hating country music. I was thinking of leaving a complaint with the yoga studio, but I'll just complain to you guys instead because that's what I've always done.

So running, volleyball, and yoga have been about it as far as exercise goes lately, and I have been losing some muscle tone. I have been avoiding doing any kind of weight training due to an elbow problem, but today the elbow felt pretty good so I pumped some (really light-weight) iron. You know that debate kids have on the playground where they say "My dad could beat up your dad?" Well, what I don't want is some kid saying that to Kenny Jr. and poor Kenny is left saying, "You're probably right. My dad has pipe cleaner arms and can't even screw together simple wooden structures with directions that even a chimp can follow. He's hardly a man at all, but he can do a downward facing dog in his hot yoga class that will make your head spin!" That won't score him any points at all out there on that playground. 

No segue at all here, but I was at work not too long ago, and a coworker said, "Kenneth, I saw on Facebook that we have a mutual friend." She said the friend's name, and the name meant nothing to me. I looked it up, and it is a blog buddy. She was saying what a great dude he is, and it made me happy to hear that. I said he is an excellent writer, and she said that he helped everyone write their term papers in college. This pleased me too for some reason. I was proud of this dude I have never met. Then I had to explain to this coworker that I had never met him, and I'm a grown-ass man with pen pals. 

One blog buddy I have met is SO@24, and I was reminded recently of the time we first met in L.A., and for reasons I can't remember, we recreated the suggestive cover art from Hall and Oates' 1982 release, "H20." I thought of this because I went to an outdoor Hall & Oates show last night on a very hot and humid Chicago night with my sister, her boyfriend, and my very pregnant and sweaty wife. Believe it or not, we were actually just as sweaty as Daryl Hall and John Oates were in the picture! 

(Hall & Oates)

(Dr. Ken and SO@24. We should have got sweatier or just spritzed water on our faces. It will always be one of my biggest regrets.)

There has been no real rhyme or reason to where this post has been headed, and I'll just end it here. Go ahead and leave a comment related to any of the scatter shot of topics I have run down in this rambling stream of consciousness, or just say hello to your insane pen pal buddy from Chicago. Now, if you'll excuse me, I'm going to admire the glorious crib that big daddy built with his own. bare. hands! 

I just did some yoga with HLP's wife, and instead of going to the gym next door as planned, she talked me into getting pizza and going back to HLP's place, where we found Steven Seagal's Marked for Death to be on the plasma.

Let me tell you a few awesome/terrible things about this film . . .

1. The bad guy in the film is a Jamaican drug lord named Screwface with scary eyes, and Steven goes after this guy, breaking like 20 Jamaican arms in the process.

2. Seagal is so chubby, moves so slow, walks around like he has a stick up his ass, and he somehow can beat up a room full of people in his movies.

3. The soundtrack is actually really good with some great reggae songs by Jimmy Cliff and Peter Tosh, along with some random old school rap songs by Young MC and Tone Loc.

4. So, after chopping the head off of the bad guy, Seagal and his cronies bring the head to show a bunch of other baddies, only to have Jamaican Drug Lord Guy show up with his head still attached, somehow. He has a twin brother! So, Seagal has a sword fight with him, cutting his forehead pretty good, pops his thumbs through his eyes, gives him a Wrestlemania back breaker, and throws him through a wall, down an elevator shaft, to be skewered on a pole like so much Jamaican jerk chicken. His one liner? "I hope they're not triplets," or something like that. Terrible!

5. One infamous mistake in the film involves a car chase through Chicago where there are palm trees along the street. Huh? I've lived here all my life, and rarely do I see those.

The bottom line is this: If I could kick as much butt as Seagal, I'd opt for pizza over the gym just about every night, and I'd rock my gut and pony tail whilst busting arms.